


Gossamer

by astxrwar



Series: The Lovely Collection [1]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Have you SEEN ben affleck, Honestly... just porn sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7050118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/astxrwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She still sleeps in his bed with him. It helps with the nightmares, he knows, and it’s platonic, completely and utterly, except that it’s not. Except that one day he wakes up and he sees her with her head tucked up under his arm and his throat just constricts, it tightens, and he realizes dimly that he wouldn’t mind doing this forever, for the rest of his life, until the day when he finally runs out of oxygen and luck and time– he would give anything for it. Gladly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 5 AM Light

**Word Count: 3300**

**Rating: NC-17**

**Warnings: Age gap– reader is like… 20 (because obviously this is a shameless self insert) and bruce is like 35 ish. I know he’s older in the movie. Just let me live.**

**A/N: I have returned. Fear me. Also I repeatedly describe the reader as small in Bruce’s eyes and that’s just because he’s fuckin’ 6′4″ and buff as all hell so y’know even if you’re tall for a girl he’s still taller than you lmao**

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

His phone rings. And rings. And rings. No one answers. He watches as something bright and glowing collides with the side of his corporate skyscraper, sending shockwave ripples up the sides of the structure, shaking it to it’s core–

The building falls.

It collapses in on itself with an earth-shattering crack and a cloud of dust and smoke and then it crumbles, thousands of tons of steel and stone and concrete–

Someone is shouting.

It’s him. It’s his voice.

“[Name]!”

Because she’s inside that building and she’s inside that building because he put her there, because he cared too much, and now she’s in danger because of him, and he was supposed to protect her, this wasn’t supposed to happen, not again–

He starts to run.

He pushes past people sprinting in the other direction and he shields his eyes from the clouds of smoke and he runs, ignoring the shrill sharp sound of car alarms going off and the screams of the people around him–

The wall of dust and rock shards hits him full-force. His ears ring, his heart pounds, his chest constricts with a mounting, ominous feeling of dread.

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne, I can’t feel my legs– please–”

There is a man, crushed by the rubble, a bloody mutilated mess where his knees once were and Bruce runs towards him, desperate to help, desperate to do anything to push away the awful mantra of she’s dead she’s dead she’s dead and it’s your fault it’s all your fault–

“Help!” He roars, “Help, we need some help over here!”

“Please,” the man begs, desperate, panicked– “Please, I can’t– I can’t feel my legs.”

“It’s all right,” he lies, looking over the man, checking for any other damage– his name tag is bent and dusty and there is a smear of blood over the words, but he can still make out what it says. “What’s your name, Wallace? Do I call you Wally?” He asks, focusing as hard as he fucking can on anything other than the anger and loss and remorse settling like a cold stone in his stomach. [Name]. [Name]. [Name]. God, he should’ve–

“You’re the boss, boss,” the man manages, with a ghost of panicked humor as people begin to take notice and rush over, grabbing his arms and lifting the beam of off him.

“I can’t move my legs,” he keeps saying, over and over and over, but Bruce isn’t paying attention, no, he doesn’t notice–

Because there is a young woman standing beneath a small ledge created by the debris, and her silhouette is familiar and it could be her, maybe, impossibly, and he struggles not to get his hopes up as he starts towards her, her name already bursting from his lips, unbidden–

“[Name]? [Name], please–” he’s running, now, running towards the figure and praying desperately to a god he’s not sure he ever truly believed in, praying for a miracle he doesn’t deserve–

The ledge over her head begins to collapse.

His heart stops as the mass of stone and steel falls, and he’s not slowing down, no, he runs towards her and scoops her up in his arms and lands with a grunt on the ground as the debris falls with a shattering, creaking bang behind them.

“Bruce–” a voice is saying, sweet and light and painfully, painfully familiar, and he’s cupping her face in his hands and wiping away the blood and the dirt and the dried tears on her cheeks and he’s smiling, fuck, he can’t stop smiling–

She stares at him with wide, wide eyes–

She starts to cry.

“[Name],” he manages, “You’re all right. You’re safe now. All right? I won’t let anything hurt you, I swear, I promise, never again–”

He pulls her into a bone crushing hug, rests his chin on her head as her chest heaves and her shoulders shake, lets her cry and cry and cry into his dress shirt.

“Bruce,” she hiccups, “Bruce, I–”

He smoothes his palms over her shoulder blades, down her spine, and closes his eyes. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so–” he swallows, and swallows again, past the sudden lump in his throat– things usually don’t affect him like this, they don’t make him feel so helpless, but for a reason he can’t place his chest feels like a steel vice, slowly suffocating, crushing his ribs and his lungs and his heart–

She hugs him tighter, lets him pick her up in his arms and carry her out of the rubble.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispers. “Oh, Bruce–”

He stares up at the sky, at the residual glow from the man who had caused this, and his brow creases. Anger bubbles in the pit of his stomach, hot and dark and deadly.

“I know, [Name],” he murmurs. He kisses her head. “I know.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The nightmares set in a week later.

He hears her come in, familiar footsteps soft and light against the cold linoleum floor– and he doesn’t say anything, not at first, doesn’t even realize why she’s there until she climbs into his bed and slips under the covers, movements slow, hesitant, /scared/, even.

He rolls over, blinks, eyes half lidded. “Wh– [Name]?” He murmurs, voice rough and heavy with sleep.

She inhales sharply, startled, and then ducks her head. “Sorry,” she whispers, “sorry, i just– i keep having nightmares and I can’t sleep and i was just so worried-”

Her voice cracks. She swallows. She pushes off the covers, moves like she’s going to leave, and he doesn’t want that, no, because he knows what it’s like to have those kind of nightmares, to need reassurance–

He slings his arm over her shoulders, pulls her in until her face is nestled against his side. She tenses, at first, eventually relaxing into the hard lines of his body, and in his half-asleep stupor he tucks her head under his chin, wraps his arms around her, and pulls her close. He’s not thinking about consequences. He’s not thinking about boundaries. He’s thinking about making her okay again and going back to sleep.

“’s fine,” he mumbles, “You’re safe. ’M not gonna let anything hurt you.”

Her hands, small and warm, rest against his chest. “Bruce, I’m not– I’m not scared of getting hurt,” she whispers, voice quiet and soft, like she’s confessing a secret. “I keep– i keep dreaming that you saved me from the building but– but I lost you.”

He nuzzles her head, breathes in deeply, the soft sweet smell of her hair familiar and comforting. “’M fine. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’m right here.”

He falls asleep with her wrapped up in his arms.

It becomes a habit. It shouldn’t. Truthfully, it’s mostly his fault.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He’s never really thought about the possibility of falling in love. It seems like something far-off, distant, something made for people who aren’t quite as fucked up as he is. But sometimes–

Sometimes he sees her, standing by the window in his bedroom with her hair tangled and her nightshirt falling just past her knees and she looks fucking holy in the faint warm light of the rising sun, soft and serene and perfect, and he wonders–

He wonders.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She still sleeps in his bed with him. It helps with the nightmares, he knows, and it’s platonic, completely and utterly, except that it’s not. Except that one day he wakes up and he sees her with her head tucked up under his arm and his throat just constricts, it tightens, and he realizes dimly that he wouldn’t mind doing this forever, for the rest of his life, until the day when he finally runs out of oxygen and luck and time– he would give anything for it. Gladly.

His hand drifts down, calluses on his palm scraping shallowly over the slopes of her hip– and he shouldn’t but god he wants to– his thumb smoothing over and over and over the dips in her skin and the throaty murmur of her name is warm and soft and real as it rises in the back of his throat and he doesn’t– he’s never–

She shifts her body closer to his, fingers curling over his bicep, bunching in the fabric of his t-shirt– and he doubts she’s really awake, he doubts she even has any idea what she’s doing, what she’s doing to him, and if he were a better man, maybe he’d do something about it. He’d pull away. He’d wake her up. He’d put a stop to this, now, before it escalates.

He doesn’t.

He’s not a stranger to this. This isn’t new, there’s nothing unfamiliar about the feeling, but he can’t risk getting attached so easily.

(He already is. He already is. He has been for days and weeks and months, even, certain that if she disappeared he’d lose something inside of himself, too.)

Bruce Wayne isn’t a better man. Sometimes he wonders if he’s even a good one.

Her shirt has rucked up around her waist and he splays his hand gently over her exposed skin, marveling at just how fucking perfect her body is against his own rugged hardness, and the sight– it sparks a fierce sort of ownership deep inside his abdomen, white-hot and star-bright and unlike anything he’s ever felt before. He wants to possess and protect and defend and he wants to take, too, he wants to take and keep and own, wants to hear her say his name over and over again like she needs him until it’s seared into his memory permanently, until he can’t begin to think of anything else. He wants her hands fisted in his sheets and her head thrown back and the soft smooth column of her throat covered in red marks– his marks, always his, only his–

He sighs, rumbling and quiet; he tries to fight down the warm slow liquid burn in his belly and the corresponding swell and throb of his  cock half hard in his boxers, but it aches, the feeling, it stays dull and low and constant, begging for his attention, and he wants–

“Bruce,” she says– no, mewls, he thinks, she mewls, the sound soft and placid and pleading as she buries her face in his chest, presses herself to him, not quite awake but not quite asleep, either, and he groans, the sound barely even audible.

“Please,” she whines in her sleep, louder this time, the sound still gentle, plaintive– like she’s begging, almost, and that thought is enough to coax him into full-blown arousal, cock twitching, needy, against the constraints of his underwear as she squirms forward, closer, the sheets- his sheets, that’s important, his sheets–tangled around her body. She talks in her sleep. He knows that. But never– never– never like this.

“Bruce… Want you,” She murmurs, softer, voice muffled as she buries her face in his chest, and he leans down, close to her– too close, far too close– until the day-old scruff lining his jaw scratches over her skin and his lips just barely brush the shell of her ear. He exhales, low and shaky, and she shivers in response. Her eyes are still closed, and he doesn’t know if she’s still sleeping or if she’s not, if she’s aware of what he’s doing and how he can’t, how he shouldn’t; doesn’t want to find out or dwell on that question for too long–

“[Name],” he breathes. “Shh. I’m here, i’m right here.”

She barely reacts but they’re pressed so closely together that he can feel her heartbeat speed up in response, her pulse skipping and stuttering and jumping beneath her skin as her body subconsciously relaxes into his arms. He moves his hand up to the curve of her hip, stunned at just how much of her skin he can cover up with just his palm, even more with his fingers– she’s so small compared to him, he realizes, so fragile, if he kissed her right now he’d probably dwarf her mouth with his own, he could pick her up and set her in his lap with hardly any effort–

“Bruce,” she whimpers, and something about the shattered, delicate, half-asleep tone of her voice makes his veins feel inadequate and paper-thin, as if they couldn’t possibly hold back what’s inside, not anymore–

“[Name],” He responds, voice hushed, urgent, hand smoothing down her back, fingers ghosting over her spine, fluttering, not quite making contact, until she shivers from it and moves closer still, and then she presses her body against him completely, allowing him to pull her over him and–

He hadn’t been expecting that.

He rocks his hips forward with a grunt of surprise and she gasps, squirming, hands bunched in his shirt, his cock thick and hot and heavy against the inside of her thigh– “Oh–”

Something about the timbre of her voice has changed– she’s awake now, she has to be, but he doesn’t want to check and he doesn’t want to know–

He stills. He shouldn’t be– this– he can’t. His breathing is fast and erratic and he feels like a fucking schoolboy again, incapable of controlling himself. He loosens his hold on her, waits for her to make the first move, to pull away, not sure if he trusts himself to be able to do so–

“Bruce,” she murmurs again– quietly, sleepily, innocently– he can hear the confusion in her voice and he prepares himself for what he knows is coming, the inevitable breach of trust and the gap that will open up between them that he’s not sure he’d ever be able to fix.

She wriggles.

“Bruce,” she repeats, with more urgency, “please, Bruce, want you, please–”

He hesitates.

He blinks–

And he softens.

“Oh, [Name],” he murmurs, disbelieving, as she spreads her thighs, seeking more, not turning away, no, pressing closer and burying her face in his shoulder, her hands bunched in his shirt like he’s anchoring her to something as the bulge of his cock brushes over the damp spot in her lace-lined cotton underwear–

She rolls her hips into his– tentatively, uncertainly, as if she’s not quite sure how he’d respond.

He groans. He gasps. His resolve splinters.

And then he’s rocking up against her without thinking and he’s registering her breath leaving her body in one little cry as he holds her hips steady with one hand and hooks his arm around her waist, crushing her to him, reminded of just how small she is and just how small he isn’t as he keeps her still, body dwarfed by his larger frame–

She gasps and she keens and she trembles in his arms, warm and soft and perfect above him, lost and overwhelmed by the slow heat he can feel blossoming over her skin, something new and unfamiliar and something that he caused, not anyone else, /him/, and maybe he shouldn’t be as proud of it as he is but it doesn’t matter.

 His cock pushes up against her cunt a little harder now, with a little more purpose– he’s stopped caring about wrong and right and is focused solely on the friction, how good it feels, how good she feels, how desperately she wriggles and squirms and presses her body back up against his, wanting faster and more– and she gasps and shivers and whispers his name against his chest like a plea, like a prayer, as he grinds against her, slow and purposeful, the very tips of his fingers tracing the lace waistband of her underwear–

“Mmh- oh– Bruce,” she cries out, as he tightens his hold on her hips, stops her from moving as he rocks against her– too slow, almost torturous–and then she’s struggling to grind down on the swell of his cock, urging him on, pleading for more and even though he shouldn’t he knows he could never really say no to her, not like this, never like this–

“Shh, it’s all right. I’m here. Right here,” he says, voice low and soothing as his hands inch down, spreading her thighs open, smoothing over her skin, his touch hesitant and fluttering and uncertain, and he tilts his head– he just means to look at her, doesn’t want to make this any worse than it already is but his face is tense and his brow is creased because she looks so fucking perfect; her lips are slightly parted and her eyes are half-lidded and he just– he wants–

“Bruce, please,” she whimpers, “please–”

He kisses her.

She gasps into his mouth and she cups his jaw in her hands and oh it’s exactly, precisely like he had imagined, his tongue parts her lips and he devours her, utterly and completely, his hand slipping under the waistband of her underwear,  wanting to touch and feel and claim–

He pulls back. He breathes into her mouth, face taut and tense, and he goes slow, fingers searching, painting circles over her thighs and slipping into her cunt, watching her gasp and shudder and squirm for him, rocking into his hand and the hard outline of his cock in his boxers–

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rumbling deep in his chest as she squirms and whimpers and cries out, clutching onto him like he’s anchoring her or protecting her or keeping her safe from something–

“Bruce,” she nearly sobs, because his fingers are working so slowly and he’s still got an arm around her waist, holding her still, keeping her from moving– “oh my god, please–”

He kisses her again, he keeps his eyes shut and brow furrowed and he focuses on her heartbeat, on what he can do to make her squirm, to make her ache for him the way he has, the way he always will–

He curls his fingers. He grinds the heel of his palm against her clit.

She shatters.

She gasps and trembles and shivers and the muscles in her thighs tense and tighten as she presses her face into his shoulder, hips jerking helplessly, back and forth, her moans breathy and shocked and needy as her nails dig into his shoulders just enough to make him hiss– it’s the intensity of it, of them, together, like this, and he wants to tell her that he feels it too, he does–

“Shh, [Name], I got you,” he murmurs instead, rubbing her back until the shivers and the aftershocks subside, until her heart rate slows down and her breathing evens out.

The moments of silence that follow are soft and warm and almost surreal.

“Bruce,” she murmurs eventually, breath hot against his ear. “What time is it?”

“Five-thirty,” he replies. His voice is lower, rougher than he’d expected. “Sleep. You have a few hours.”

She yawns, and makes a small noise in affirmative. He lays there, unmoving, until he’s certain she’s asleep, and then he eases out from underneath her and walks into the bathroom, shuts and locks the door behind him–

He looks at his hands for a long, long time and then he sucks his fingers clean, the taste tart and sweet and perfect and he feels his cock twitch, reaches down to touch himself, to give into it–

He wraps his hand around his shaft, swipes the pad of his thumb over the head and nearly groans at the sensation, fingers curling into a fist on the granite bathroom counter– he feels a pang of guilt and unbidden self-loathing in his abdomen, sharp and sudden. How could he--

When he comes, it’s quick and sudden with a grunt and a hiss of her name through gritted teeth.

It sinks in, what he had done.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “ _Fuck_.”

He doesn’t fall back asleep.

No- he cleans up, and he gets dressed and he heads to the kitchen, he pulls out pancake mix and eggs and a gleaming copper skillet that had mostly just been left there for show. He cooks breakfast, because he can’t bear to be left alone with his thoughts. When she comes out four hours later, hair tousled and eyes sleepy, she asks him if she’d woken up at all during the night– he says no. She says she had a strange dream, that’s all. He ignores the flush of heat spreading over her chest. It’s better that way, for her to remember it like that–

A dream.


	2. 10 PM Glow

**Word count: 3500**

**Rating: NC-fucking-17 guys what did u expect**

**Author comments: I’m tired…. so tired… I haven’t slept since 1916 and finals are on the horizon and I am running away from my problems… (JK man i’m hanging in there I just don’t drink enough) (WATER NOT ALCOHOL) here is some bruce wayne porn for yall thanks**

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Bruce shouldn’t have let her have anything to drink.

  
He–

  
_Fuck._

  
It’s bad enough that he still feels it– the _want_ and the _need_ and the _ache_ , sinking and swaying deep in his stomach–but it’s even worse that he does things like this, leaves situations open for accidents and bad decisions and excuses to get drunk and ruin everything.

  
They’re back from a fundraising event. She’s twirling around the living room floor to the beat of music that he doesn’t recognize–that truthfully he’s not even paying attention to– and her dress is flaring out as she spins, round and round and round, breathless, dizzy giggles rising in the back of her throat, beautiful and perfect and _his_.

She’s not.

She’s _not_.

She isn’t his.

He finishes his second glass of whiskey and pours another from the bottle on the table.

_Fuck._

He’s smiling. And it’s not his usual smile, tight and curt and perfunctory, no– because it’s a little crooked, a little uneven, and his lips are mostly closed, and there’s a softness to it, to _him_ , that feels almost unfamiliar, like he hasn’t really had a reason for it in a long time.  
It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. It means _nothing_. It means nothing when she loses her balance and leans into his chest, it means nothing when he wraps his arms around her and chuckles, deep and low, his chin resting on the top of her head, it means nothing when she looks up at him and smiles like she’s not even thinking about it, like it’s _instinct_. It means _nothing._

He tips back his third ( _third_ , christ) tumbler of whiskey and relishes in how it scorches his throat going down. The glass clinks against the hardwood as he places it down on the end table. He’s not drunk, not quite– he wonders if he can even get drunk anymore, what with how often this happens– but he’s buzzed. He’s not thinking straight. He can never think straight whenever she’s concerned. It takes an impossible amount of effort to consciously remember to leave a good six inches of space between their bodies. She hesitates, like she wants to press closer, but she doesn’t, even as he holds his breath and wills her to, wills her to want him like he wants her–

Jesus fucking Christ, he just wants her to _remember._

A week and a half ago he had kissed her and she had moaned into his mouth and she had wanted him with the same burning frantic ache that’s tearing him apart on the inside, and the whole time she had been _his_ and his alone, and he wants her to remember how _good_ it was, he wants her to need him again and make the first move so that he doesn’t have to, so that maybe he can cling to the remaining tattered scraps of his decorum.

The song has ended. The music has shut off, he realizes. The silence is heavy, suffocating, swirling in and around and almost materializing into something concrete, something solid, separating them from the outside world and creating a place where everything else just ceases to matter besides the sound of his blood rushing in his head, thumping and pounding against his skull. And maybe, he thinks, maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the mounting tension in his body from the past week and a half that just won’t go away, maybe it’s the weeks and months and years of being alone that are finally getting to him–

She meets his eyes. They’re too close.

He doesn’t move away.

He wonders if it even matters what the reason is, his excuse for why he’s doing this.

He wonders if maybe–

Maybe it’s just her.

_He doesn’t move away._

If he were thinking straight, he would remember to move away.

She takes his hand in her smaller one, idly runs her fingers over small scars and calluses and traces his veins up to his wrist, touch feather-light and almost hesitant. He frowns.

“What are you doing?” He asks, voice low, nearly a whisper– and it sounds guttural, desperate, confused, so very different than his usual commanding, prepossessing tone.

_What are you doing to me?_

“I don’t know,” she laughs quietly. She looks up at him again. He realizes dimly that he has the power to stop this, to make it go away and disappear altogether, to make sure he stays an appropriate distance away from his feelings and away from the warm slow heat spreading over his skin where she’d touched him just a second ago.

He swallows.

He doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t _want_ to.

She reaches up, brushes his hair away from his face, her expression strangely concentrated–almost intense– and her tongue pokes out of her lips a little when she gets like this, gets so _focused_ , and he wants to laugh at that, but he doesn’t, no, that’s not what he does–

“[Name]” he manages, “I can’t–”

She frowns, brow creasing, fingers hovering by his temple.

“Can’t what?” She whispers.

And–

When he had spoken, when he had said that, he didn’t know what he meant, what it was supposed to mean, but as her palm presses to his skin, warm and soft and so fucking familiar, he realizes what he had wanted to tell her, what he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud–

_I can’t stop._

_I can’t stop._

_I can’t stop._

_I don’t want to stop._

He tilts his head down.

He thinks, dimly, that he should be fighting harder. He should be making the right decision and moving away, pulling back, locking himself in his room until he can get control over this, control over himself, and control over the slow-burning coil of warmth that has settled in his stomach, because this– he won’t be able to ignore it, to pass it off as a fantasy or a dream because the way he’s looking at her is really, truly undeniable.

She blinks, as if realizing, suddenly, that he’s getting closer and that she’s not moving away.

“Don’t, then,” she breathes.

Her eyes flutter closed. She leans up. He tastes alcohol on her breath, but he doesn’t have the self control to pull away.

He kisses her.

She melts.

And he-

He _shatters._

He pulls her body closer to his and kneads her hips and he kisses her, he _kisses_ her, again and again and again as if she’s liable to break or crumble or disappear at any moment, she tangles her fingers in his hair and his tongue sweeps through her mouth with an undercurrent of aggression that really shouldn’t be that surprising as he yanks her hips closer to his with a reverberating groan, broken and low–

And she kisses him back. Of course she does.

“Bruce” she gasps, and something about the way she says his name makes him stop, it makes him shiver and he pulls back, a fraction of an inch, to see that her lips are bruised and her eyes are _bright_ where they’re not eclipsed by her pupils, blown wide open like stars and one of the straps on her dress is slipping down her shoulder, her hair is tangled and her skin is flushed and she looks goddamn _perfect._

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, guttural and fierce, and then his mouth moves down over the column of her throat, biting down, sucking a deep bruise over her collarbone that will be visible for hours and days and _weeks_ to come and the thought makes him fucking proud as she gasps his name again, voice crumbling under the pressure of his mouth.

“God, [Name], you’re– beautiful,” he mutters against her neck, voice low and muffled, “The way everybody kept looking at you tonight–I had to remind myself that you weren’t– that _we_ weren’t–”

She whispers his name, soft and reverent, takes his face in her hands as he’s talking and tilts his head up, and when she kisses him back, hard and eager, he chokes on his words and forgets what he was saying, realizes it probably doesn’t matter as his fingers tangle in her hair, pinning her down and holding her in place as he licks into her mouth. He tastes champagne and strawberries and something tart and familiar that he had missed, desperately, since that morning– he had missed all of this, he had missed her, mostly, and the way she had felt beneath his hands. It feels _good._

“C'mon,” she pleads, winding her arms around his neck, backing up against the polished oak door to his bedroom, the bronze handle pressed in between the notches of her spine– and he has an excuse prepared for this exact scenario, because he can’t afford to make this any more permanent; he is a dangerous man and he is not good at this, at commitment and relationships and he can’t promise her anything except that he would _try_ , and she deserves better than that.

“I want you, Bruce,” She gasps, as he nips at her earlobe, fingernails catching in the plunging neckline of her dress. “Please. _Please_ –”

“Christ,” he grits out hoarsely as she rocks into him again, insistent– he’s already fucking hard, of course he is, fucking _hell_. “I could _hurt_ you,” he mutters, voice heavy and serious–she has to realize this, has to know that he’s not _gentle_ and he’s not _nice_ and he doesn’t make love, no, no, he _fucks_ , he leaves bite marks and bruises, he’s rough and harsh and unforgiving and he’s not sure he can change that, even for her.

“Please,” she asks again, surging up and kissing him, open-mouthed and filthy, and he sees her cheeks flush with heat before she says anything else as if she’s too embarrassed to speak, and then he feels a shock deep deep down in his abdomen because he _knows_ , he knows what she’s thinking, what she couldn’t quite bring herself to say out loud.

“Bruce, I want– I want you to fuck me,” she whispers, and his body tenses, he shudders, he _consumes_ the words, the taste soft and sweet and filthy on his tongue.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls, unable to help himself, unable to fucking stop, as the only remaining functional part of his brain wonders just how exactly she managed to do this to him, how she just knew what to say to make him crumble. “Say it again.”

He pushes his hips against hers, he breathes into her mouth, face tense, eyes closed, lids creased and lashes quivering from the pressure as a thrill of anticipation shoots through his belly, waiting for her to speak.

“Fuck me, Bruce, _please_ ,” she whispers, voice soft, hesitant, like she’s embarrassed, and he’s not sure why, but it makes it so much _sweeter._

“Is that really what you want?” He murmurs, pinning her back against the door with the hard muscle of his thigh pressed between her legs, her answering gasp muffled as she buries her face into his shoulder. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” she says– _whines_ , really, and he can feel her heartbeat speed up, skip and stammer and stall as she leans into him, and he reaches behind her to open the door, stumbles back through with his hands tight on her hips– he would press bruises with anyone else, would remind them of exactly what kind of person he is, but it’s _her_ , and if he lets himself he’s not sure he would know when to stop.

He kisses her again. She rolls her hips into him, helplessly and sinuously, her fingers curl in the lapels of his suit jacket and he’s tracing the zipper of her dress with his thumb, acutely aware of the ache building like the lazy roar of an open fire deep in his belly followed by a throb of shame at his own selfishness.

He doesn’t fucking _stop_ , though.

“Tell me,” he growls, voice low and hoarse and helpless in all the ways that actually matter. “Tell me you want this. I need to know– I need to be _sure_ –”

“I do,” she whispers, mouth pressed to his jaw. “I want this, Bruce, I want _you_ –”

A noise, low and possessive, rumbles in his chest, half-aborted and cut off, and then he’s shrugging his suit jacket back off of his shoulders, movements jerky and borderline violent as he crushes her against his body into a kiss that’s devastatingly possessive, all teeth and tongue and _want_ –

Her dress is off before he has time to pause and think about what he’s doing, and then his pants and his dress shirt and her stockings are tossed into a pile on the floor and he’s trailing soft, slightly frantic kisses down between her breasts, over her stomach, nipping at the sensitive skin on her inner thighs and groaning lowly when she squirms and gasps, the sound fragile, almost broken, needy and desperate and _perfect_ –

He kicks off his boxers and she slides her lace underwear down over her hips and there’s a long moment where neither of them move, neither of them breathe, he just stares at her and she stares right back and the vulnerability in her eyes makes him wonder if this was a mistake.

“[Name],” he mutters quietly, hands resting on her hips, tracing patterns into her skin with his thumbs. “Are you sure-”

“Yes,” she says, cutting him off. “Yes, _please,_ Bruce, yes–”

He exhales shakily.

He doesn’t hesitate after that.

Bruce  pulls her into his lap, her body warm and soft against his own ruggedness, and then her hands are clutching his shoulders and she pushes herself up on her knees and his cock nudges the inside of her thigh, makes her gasp and shiver and hesitate–

Bruce meets her eyes. She exhales softly, eyes wide, and then she relaxes in his arms- just a little, but it’s enough.

He rocks his hips up.

“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh-”

“[Name],”  he whispers, sounding frantic, face taut and tense as he stills, groans into her open, waiting mouth, lips catching on hers. and he savors it, the lack of friction and the stillness; her breath is shaky and sharp and hot and her nails are digging into his shoulders and her body is warm and soft against his own and this is _new_ , it has never been like this before, sex has never felt so monumentally _important_ –

He clutches her hips, makes her rock down, makes her _take_ him, and she does– oh, she does, she does _so well_ – and her pretty lips part for a gasp and a whimper as she rolls her hips forward, seeking more.

“Bruce,” she keens, breathless, heat setting into her chest and her cheeks and her neck as she leans against him, foreheads touching and noses bumping as she moans against his mouth, pleading for _more_ and _harder_ and _yes Bruce oh– oh yes please–_

“There,” he grunts, eyes closed tight, “There, tell me how good it feels.”

He reaches down, rubs a tight slick circle around her clit and murmurs praise as she trembles and begs him to never stop, rocks against his hand as he rolls his hips up to meet hers, pace slow and torturous.

“ _Bruce_ – I–” she gasps, cries, keens–

“Yes,” he grits out, “Yes, [Name], so good for me, always so good–”

She shudders and moans and he rocks his hips up, he fucks her hard, he grunts with the struggle of holding on to the tatters of his self-control as she and leans forward and kisses him, open-mouthed and messy, trails her lips down his jawline and over his neck, breath hot against his skin. His hips snap upwards and he buries his cock completely inside of her and he groans and she shakes and her thighs tremble and he’s not sure either of them can take much more of this, not when the slow slick slide of their bodies is already so obscene to begin with, the dull sound of skin against skin and her moans and his rasping breaths almost filthy in the surrounding silence–

He trails his hand down her stomach, presses the pad of his thumb against her clit and chuckles breathlessly when she chokes on a broken moan, her body already so strung out and overwhelmed that she can barely contain it.

“Please, please, Bruce, please,” she cries out, as he slows down, struggling to keep himself from giving in to the pleasure mounting in his stomach like pent-up steam.

“Please what?” He murmurs, moving slow, pressing sloppy open-mouthed kisses to her neck and nipping gently at her skin– she gasps when his teeth sink in, tips her head back and bares her neck to him, and he wishes he could see her like this forever, breathless and blushing and needy and entirely, completely _his._

“Do you want me to make you come?” He whispers, and his voice is low and raspy in her ear and the shiver that trembles down her spine is strong enough that he can feel it, he can feel the way her muscles constrict and contract and _tighten_ around his cock and it takes everything he has to keep himself from just fucking her hard like he so desperately wants to.

She nods, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. He smooths his hands down her back, tracing the notches of her spine with a feather light touch that has her leaning into him, and murmurs–

“I want to hear you say it.”

“ _please_ –” she whispers, and he studies her face, eyes dark and half lidded, memorizes her bruised lips and bright eyes and the sheen of sweat in the dips of her collarbones as if this is the first and the last time he’ll ever get to see her like this, because it might just be.

“ _Say it_ ,” he commands, his voice suddenly dark and heavy and _dangerous_ without any warning at all. It’s an order, and it’s unmistakable the way her eyes widen in response, the way her breath leaves her body like she’s been punched and the way the atmosphere changes, how the air becomes stifling and too-hot and he thinks, a little desperately, that it’s so fucking beautiful the way she just gives into him–

“ _Bruce_ –Bruce, I wanna come, I–”  she pleads, and she rolls her hips back and then forwards and her fingers dig into his shoulders and her voice hitches, it cracks, and whatever she was going to say is replaced by a heady, breathless moan–

“That’s it,” he urges, “That’s it, [Name], that’s good, you’re doing so well.”

She flushes at the praise, a slow scorching heat that spreads across her cheeks and her chest. He rocks up, and she shudders, begs him to never ever stop as he reaches down to where their bodies are joined, drags his thumb over her clit- and she’s so _wet_ , God, she’s so desperate to be fucked, so pretty riding his cock like this, so _good_ , and he tells her that, he does, he whispers against her neck all the fucking _filthy_ things he’s wanted to say since that morning in his bed–

“Bruce,” she gasps, stumbling over her words, “You feel so– _ohgod_ –”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he grits out, pressing bruises into her skin as he rocks against her, driving his hips up and feeling a sort of savage pleasure at every dull echo of his skin hitting hers. “So pretty, [Name], taking it so well,” he groans, mouth pressed to her pulse point, feeling her heartbeat stutter and skip as he talks, “I wish you could see yourself right now, so desperate for it–”

He’s relentless, grinding up against her until she can barely think straight from it. Her eyes flutter closed and her brow scrunches up and her thighs tremble helplessly and he savors it, wishes he could see her like this forever, raw and vulnerable and _open_ for him–

“Oh– _Bruce_ ,” she whispers, frantic, and she shivers and her body tenses and she clutches his shoulders as he rocks into her, the sensation intense and all-consuming and blindly, impossibly perfect as he fucks her hard through her orgasm, well past the point where her body trembles from hypersensitivity, until she’s crying out his name in broken, breathless syllables, because he just can’t bring himself to stop-

“[Name]–” He kisses her, hard, and he comes with a groan and a shudder and a hiss between his teeth.

And that’s it. It’s over.

Except it’s not– except he tightens his hands on her hips, keeps her from moving, and rests his chin on top of her head, pulling her to his chest. And he holds her, maybe a little tighter than he should, and he promises himself he’s never giving this up.

He’s afraid, yes, afraid of what this will mean for him– for them, he realizes– but he’s not going to stop.

Bruce loves her.

(He _loves_ her.)

For some reason, the realization isn’t as shocking as it should have been.


End file.
